The Void Within
by Magda the Magpie
Summary: John had died in Afghanistan so he wasn't quite sure why his body hadn't.


Growing up, John knew he annoyed everyone with his constant happiness and optimism. It grated on people's nerves, especially in the early hours of the morning, which he only found more amusing and encouraged him to be all the merrier. He'd laughed his way through school, made a ton of friends in med school, created fast bonds in the army and felt life was good right up to the point when he was shot.

That… had been quite a shock.

Statistically, he knew his chances of getting shot were quite high where they were being deployed. His experience and his status as a doc lowered those numbers of course, but still, he shouldn't have been so surprised. But there he was, gasping under the heavy sun, clawing at the clasps of his gear which was pinning him down and making it harder to breath. He had to find cover, he had to put pressure on the wound, he had to find help… Fuck, he felt like he was dying. His blood was… well… everywhere. That much blood...

"Oh, God… Please, don't let me die."

Dark spots started dancing in front of his eyes and he knew his prayers wouldn't be answered, he just knew it. The life was draining out of him, painting the dusty patch around him a lurid red against the pure blue sky.

* * *

Then, John had woken up in the hospital, terrible pain shooting through his arm and he knew he hadn't died after all. That was the moment he realized something wasn't quite right because he wasn't relieved, he wasn't happy, nor angry, nor sad. Not even curious. He just waited.

He saw a flurry of nurses and doctors and then _specialists_ , who all seemed to agree that although his shoulder wound would need months to recover fully, if even that, the real problem lay elsewhere. They were being so tactful not to say that he had become one of those nutjobs they'd rather not have in the army, but he was kicked out all the same, with an honorable discharge, sure, but kicked out nonetheless.

Frankly, John didn't see why they had an issue with it. They thought he was in a permanent state of shock and might snap at anytime, but John knew he wasn't. He was just… empty. If he had to explain it, he'd say he was sound of body and mind, but that his heart was missing. He had tried to explain as much to one of the specialist, but quickly realized that was a bad idea when the words sociopath and psychopath were bantered around, so he did a complete turn-about and agreed that he was still very much in shock and could they please help him.

John's lack of emotions made that diagnosis so very easy to enforce, but he noticed his blank face and utter lack of concern also creeped people out. Not that he cared, really, but people were useful and, although he doubted he needed anyone now, he'd certainly need them in case he became himself again.

Maybe it _was_ shock. He didn't feel shocked. In shock? Should he be grieving? Crying? Staring at the walls with drool dribbling down his chin? Shouting his anger at the world? He didn't know. He knew it should probably be one of those, but there was nothing that prompted him either way. So he waited.

* * *

It was easier to hide his "condition" in London because no one ever paid you any mind in the great bustling city. John practiced being normal on the people he met: smiling at the lady who handed him his coffee, laughing at his neighbour's crude jokes, winking at the woman flirting with him at the laundromat… He'd practiced in the mirror beforehand and the results were satisfactory. No one suspected that he was less than human.

But those were positive emotions. It was much harder emulating anger and sadness. He could get his eyebrows to draw down quite efficiently, could even do that thing with his lips where they became a thin white line, but something was missing for it to be convincing, and tears were just plain impossible to do. He couldn't very well go around walking with an onion in his pocket to get the tear ducts working in case he needed it. He'd just have to embrace the persona of the tough guy who never cried. Anger was an issue though. There were a hundred and one reasons a day to get mad in London, from the chip and pin machines that never worked to the commuters who bumped into you... Someone was bound to notice if he never reacted to anything.

John idly scratched his head, then pinched himself. He did that often, just to check that he really was alive, because he didn't _feel_ that he was, not the way he did before. Sometimes, he wondered if he really had died in Afghanistan, and his body had just not gotten the memo.

* * *

When John ran into Mike Stamford, he was glad he'd practiced his fake emotions. Oh, who was he kidding? John wasn't even glad, or relieved, or satisfied. Sometimes, he wondered why he bothered. But Mike suspected nothing, thought he was the same old John, even said as much, and... really? John almost asked him how he could not see that he was dead inside, but Mike tugged him along to meet a friend of his before the words got out.

Connections. Right. That was why he bothered with this whole charade. Mike wanted him to meet his friend because he was looking for a flatshare and John was looking for cheaper accomodations. People. Useful. Maybe he should have that tattooed on his wrist.

John used all his tricks while Mike brought him down to the labs to meet his friend: feigned interest, feigned surprise, and smile, smile, smile… It made his face feel a bit strained. Smiling used up a lot of muscles.

Then he met Mike's friend, lent him his phone and quite forgot to smile when the man in question read his whole life story from little details he hadn't even been aware he was showcasing. He waited for the man to point out that he was dead inside and was sure he should feel disappointed when he didn't. Or relieved? John pondered the question while the man babbled on about something or other: which was the appropriate reaction?

"Am I boring you?" the man cut in.

John slapped on his apologetic smile, which was the one that came most naturally to him and might have been his default setting before he failed to die.

"Oh, no," he gushed. Was he overdoing it? Maybe just a bit. The other man's eyebrows had shot up. "I was… surprised. I've never seen anyone do such a trick before. It's very clever."

"A trick? It's not a trick. What do you take me for? A cheap magician who does tricks at children's birthday parties?"

It looked like he'd bollocked this one up. It hadn't happened in a while. John looked over his shoulder at Mike who was shaking his head and mouthing "sorry" at him. So maybe it wasn't his fault after all.

"No," John answered because he hadn't thought he was a magician at all.

"No?" the man quirked an eyebrow.

"Why would a magician be looking at slides in a lab?"

"Why indeed?"

That crisis averted, the man continued his little spiel, then finished with a dramatic exit where he winked at him and gave him an address and his name: Sherlock Holmes.

John looked at Mike who confirmed that yes, he was always like that.

* * *

John moved in with Sherlock. His main reasoning being that no one else in their right mind would agree to have him for a flatmate, because anyone who stayed with him for any length of time soon picked up that something wasn't quite right and found an excuse to ditch him. John had actually experimented on that and reached the conclusion that most people got uneasy after an hour and all of them ran off by the two hour mark. But Sherlock, so far, had been completely oblivious to his wrongness. John knew he should feel smug at this point that someone as clever as Sherlock couldn't see past his facade, but he couldn't summon how that used to feel. Instead he unravelled the rest of his plan: befriending Sherlock.

His aim being that someone like Sherlock, who was so full of emotions it made John's head spin, might just rub off some of that excess onto him, or maybe jump-start his emotions again, or, at the very least, give John a better insight into how his emotions should work. If not, and if they became fast friend, Sherlock would still remain the smartest person he'd ever meet, and if _he_ couldn't find a solution to John's predicament once he found out his condition, then no one could. Sherlock might even agree to kill his body so he'd be as dead on the outside as he was in the inside. Sherlock seemed to have a fondness for body-parts so there was a chance he could negotiate there.

Befriending Sherlock turned out to be ridiculously easy to achieve. As luck would have it, Sherlock was terribly lonely and had latched onto him like a barnacle. His Scotland Yard colleague's scorn at him making a friend only made Sherlock hang on tighter, prompting John to upgrade his status from a barnacle to an octopus. Then John had shot the cabbie who was trying to kill the only man who might be able to help him be normal again and Sherlock had evolved into a Kraken, engulfing him all.

* * *

Sherlock was finally starting to see through the cracks of his carefully constructed mask. He'd been mildly surprised John had shown no guilt at shooting the cabbie, but John had argued that he hadn't a very nice man and that had been that. Guilt was one of those emotion that was hard to emulate right anyway, because it involved a dose of self-hatred and anger that was difficult enough to fake as it was without directing it at himself.

But then there had been more cases, and John was too busy protecting the man who would save him one way or another to get his emotions right. In his defense, there were so many of them: annoyance at being locked out by Sherlock while he investigated, fear at being kidnapped and threatened by a Chinese circus, relief at being rescued by Sherlock in the nick of time, horror at all the bombings and the "game" Sherlock was playing with the pink phone, fear at being kidnapped and threatened, a _gain_ , and relief at being rescued by Sherlock, _again._ He was seeing a pattern here, and hoped Sherlock would soon catch on to his "condition" before the third round of let's-kidnap-John started

He did.

"John?"

Sherlock approached him when they had returned from the pool and settled down with a cup of tea. Sherlock still look rattled to have met his real arch-enemy. Moriarty was a lot like Sherlock: just as smart, vibrating with emotions and energy, but he was much more chaotic and destructive. He would never have the patience and curiosity to help John, if John had ever managed to befriend him.

Sherlock sat next to him, which was unusual since he'd usually keep some distance between them and settle in his own armchair, regardless of where John was seated, so he wondered if the time had come.

"Yes, Sherlock?

"If I ask you something, can you promise not to take it the wrong way and get angry?"

"Do I ever?"

Sherlock's face slackened as he thought about it, and John sipped his tea, giving him a minute, before his friend returned from wherever he'd gone.

"No. You don't, do you? Not really."

Sherlock looked down at him and John smiled back. It felt almost genuine, but it was still missing that spark inside and John knew it had just come born out of habit.

"You don't get angry when I play the violin all night, even badly on purpose. You don't get angry when I wake you up at all hours of the night to talk to you, or when I leave body parts in the kitchen, when I ignore you or steal your computer or burn your jumpers. I thought you were just a pushover or just… very accepting."

John motioned for him to go on.

"At the pool… After tonight, you should be angry with me, for so many reasons. But you're not. Why?"

Sherlock abandoned his half-drained cup of tea on the table and started pacing in front of the chimney. The gestures his fingers were making suggesting he was putting pieces together.

"What did Moriarty do to you?" Sherlock asked suddenly, taking a step forward, then back again. "Before I arrived. He spent some time with you. He would, wouldn't he? Torment my friend to entertain himself while he waited."

"He tried," John confirmed.

"He told me it wasn't fun playing with broken toys."

John nodded: Moriarty had been very angry and frustrated at John's utter lack of response. John had wondered what Moriarty had told Sherlock when he'd whispered in his ear, although he'd expected some more lies rather than the truth. Or did the consulting criminal think the truth would hurt more? John took a moment to think about it. Moriarty was a genius, crazy, yes, but still a genius, so if he nudged Sherlock down this path, did that mean it would end up by hurting him? Would Sherlock be angry with him, turn him away and refuse to help him? There had always been that chance anyway, and nothing could stop the dices from rolling now.

"Are you, John? Are you broken?" Sherlock asked.

He was still rooted to his spot in front of the chimney, just a few steps away, but he seemed reluctant to approach.

"Yes," John replied.

His fate was in Sherlock's hands now.

* * *

"Do you think the answer is in a book?" John asked.

"Is that curiosity I hear, John?" Sherlock replied with a cheeky grin.

His friend had taken the truth exceptionally well. John knew it would take someone exceptional to deal with his exceptional situation and, of course, hadn't been surprised.

"No," John confessed and grinned back.

Sherlock recoiled.

"You know, now that I know all your emotions are faked, I find your smiles to be particularly disturbing."

"I'm sorry," John said, because it was expected when you upset someone.

"No, you're not," Sherlock tutted and resumed his research.

* * *

The solution was not to be found in a book, but in the most unlikely of places: a foggy hollow in the middle of Dartmoor. Not that John had connected to his former persona and all his myriad emotions, but he'd felt _something_ and, even though that something was fear, it had felt so good after all this time spent with the void inside that he'd embraced it completely and almost gone mental from the terror of seeing the hound.

When the compounds had been flushed out of his system, John found a Sherlock who was vibrating from excitement at all the ideas he had in mind: drugs, chemical imbalance, defective neuro-transmitters, near-death experience… John gave him a blanket approval to try anything he thought might cure him. He'd felt again and he knew he had to feel more, all of it, all the time so he could be human again. He never doubted Sherlock would succeed eventually, not even when he somehow managed to poison him. John was sick for over a week, retching his guts out and Sherlock almost called it off. John had to goad him into continuing. He knew exactly which buttons to push, too, having seen him bicker with his brother every time they met.

John got high a lot too, but that turned out to be less interesting than you would think when you have little to no imagination, desires, fears or drive left in you. The drugs can only do so much, you've got to give them something to work with. Although… Mrs Hudson did find him wandering in her flat half naked one day. She'd escorted him back up and scolded Sherlock for using him as an experiment subject, before leaving in a huff, threatening to call his brother, Scotland Yard and the Queen herself if he ever did such a terrible, terrible thing to the good doctor again. John had laughed then, with Sherlock, feeling the bubbles of joy expand the hole in his chest before it was suddenly lost again.

Sherlock was getting frustrated, but John counted it as a win because he _could_ feel. He hadn't been stripped of his emotions as he'd once thought, they'd just been… misplaced. And Sherlock would find them again, because that's what he did: he solved mysteries, he exposed people and he found lost treasures.

* * *

"Kiss me," Sherlock said one day, out of the blue.

"Is this an experiment?" John asked, abandoning his chimney sweeping.

"Yes," Sherlock answered and straightened the cuffs of his shirt.

John dusted himself off and approached. He knew lips had more sensory receptors than anywhere else on the human body and that kissing was sometimes described as a chemical bomb, but it seemed a bit far-fetched and desperate an attempt for an experiment. Maybe Sherlock was running out of ideas?

But if it worked, if John reconnected to his emotions, he would probably feel very silly that the solution had been so obvious. well, obvious for fairy-tales. However, John wasn't a sleeping princess, he was an empty soldier.

John hadn't dated since his incident in Afghanistan because he knew it could only lead to disaster, but he'd had plenty of practice before that. Sherlock, on the other hand, had never dated. Not while they'd been flat-mates, and probably not before that either. So John took the lead: placed one hand on Sherlock's hip and the other behind his neck to pull him down into a kiss. He was still good at it judging by the low moan Sherlock was making but it was not doing much for him, so John cut it short and stepped away, giving Sherlock back his private space.

"It didn't work," Sherlock concluded, looking as disappointed as ever when one of his experiments failed to give any results.

"No." John didn't bother to apologize since that tended to annoy Sherlock, but he could at least distract him from failure. "Maybe having sex would give better results?"

Sherlock blushed and turned away, but didn't leave.

"Are you really suggesting-" he paused, turned around to face him once more, his blush back under control as the scientist in him reemerged. "Can you even maintain an erection?"

"No. Silly me, should have thought of that," John replied and returned to the chimney to finish sweeping all the ash that had accumulated over winter.

"It was a diversion," Sherlock accused, standing behind him.

John glanced over his shoulder to give him one of his placid smiles and Sherlock did leave this time

* * *

Moriarty was back and doing his best to tear Sherlock apart: publicly ruin his reputation, have everyone doubt him, send Scotland Yard and assassins after him… His web of lies was never-ending and showed a level of hatred and obsession that John would have envied if he could feel such a thing. John didn't believe any of that nonsense, of course. He might not be able to feel emotions, but he had come to know Sherlock well enough that he never doubted him for a second, so he followed after him as he fled from one bad turn to the next, usually a few steps behind, until John stumbled and lost him.

John was pretty sure Sherlock had ditched him, actually, so he returned to the last placed they'd haunted: St Bart's. And there he was, standing on the roof, his hair and coat fluttering in the air like a vigilant gargoyle looking over London. John's phone rang as soon as he stepped out of the cab.

"What are you doing up there?" John asked.

"Is that curiosity I hear, John?"

John could hear the smile in his voice. That question had become a bit of a private joke between them since the early days when Sherlock had learned, and accepted, the truth about him.

"You know it isn't. You ditched me."

"I knew you'd find me again. I had something I had to do alone. It's almost over now. I just wanted to say… I'm sorry. I couldn't help you in the end. I promised I would, but now I don't have any time left."

"You're speaking in riddles, Sherlock. You're not making any sense."

"You never liked riddles. I still count that as an emotion."

"I don't like brussel sprouts either, it doesn't mean I'm angry at them."

Sherlock snorted.

"I wish I'd known you before. We would have had a lot of fun, you and me."

"Probably," John conceded. "This sounds like a goodbye."

"It is. This phone call, it's my note. Goodbye, John."

John's heart lurched as he finally understood, fear exploding the way it had in the fog of Devil's Hollow when Sherlock dived head-first into the void.

"Sherlock! No!"

John ran forward, was promptly knocked over by something, but managed to push himself up and stagger towards the group of people huddled around a prone figure on the sidewalk. The emotional blow hitting him worse than the physical one. It was so painful, he wasn't sure why he'd wanted to be reconnected to his emotions so badly.

John broke all over again at the sight of Sherlock, lying still in a pool of lurid red blood against the pure blue sky, and he never ceased to feel again.

* * *

John had never been in shock, he'd concluded, he'd been _in need_ of a shock. Watching your best friend commit suicide right on front of your eyes certainly would do that to a bloke. It had been a bit _too_ efficient, in fact, and the onslaught of so many backlogged emotions had necessitated he be locked up in the loony bin. It was a very nice loony bin, admittedly, and he was sure he had Mycroft to thank for that.

Upon release, John returned to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had told him she'd kept the place just as it was, so he was hit by a wave of nostalgia when he stepped in. He had so many good memories here, now that he could actually connect them to his emotions. He just wished Sherlock had known the real him, not the soulless robot that had been walking around in his skin. A shudder ran through him at the memory of the void that had filled him and he pushed it away.

He resumed his life where robot-John had left it off. He was glad his soulless counterpart had not made a mess of it, at least, and had found him a friend, a nice place to live, a job and a whole lot of acquaintances. The latter all remarked on how "changed" he was though, but that couldn't be helped and most of them seemed to think it was because of his grief. And it was true: he was grieving, so much.

He still was, two years later, when Sherlock casually walked through the door and smiled at him.

"How- how?" John stuttered, not able to finish his question, but he had every confidence Sherlock could deduce it.

"Is that curiosity I hear, John?" Sherlock asked, his smile lopsided as if he was unsure he was still allowed to joke about that.

"You bet it is, you wanker," John replied, bolting forward to hug the life out of his long lost friend, and if he crushed his ribs in the process… well, that would be punishment enough for having faked his death, because he owed so much to Sherlock. He owed him his life.


End file.
